


Drabble Set 1: Sound The Drums Of War

by orphan_account



Series: Christmas Drabble Set [1]
Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2012-11-25
Packaged: 2017-11-19 12:58:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/573550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Drabbles 1-3 – Poirot is dead, and WWII is coming for Hastings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drabble Set 1: Sound The Drums Of War

**Drabbles Set 1: Sound The Drums Of War**

**AU Drabbles 1-3 – Poirot is dead, and WWII is coming for Hastings.**

**Drabble 1**

John's gramophone was still sat on the spindly table when I arrived back at the tree, as was the basket chair he had been so fond of. The pile of old records had been moved to sit on the small shelf under the table, their painted sleeves gleaming weakly in the remnants of the summer sunshine. I ran my finger across the turntable, the yellow pollen that dusted it sticking to my fingers as if I had thumbed the tree leaf it had previously resided on. I supposed John had been so busy preparing to leave, he had not bothered to bring his gramophone and records indoors, so it had stayed out here. Brushing the pollen aside, I picked a record from the pile and set it to play on the turntable. The warm crackle of music cautiously weaved itself through the air as I settled in the basket chair.

John used to take these things out here when he needed to think. He did his thinking most nights, however tonight he needed to finish preparing for the journey ahead. I had finished preparing for my travels, and only awaited the sunrise until I would leave with John to the muddy fields that were the front line. War had broken out between Britain and Germany again, and I had signed up to do my duty, along with my good friend John Cavendish, who had kept in touch after the escapade at Styles Court. It was his idea to join the army again, and I was only too happy to re-enlist.

Had the war come earlier, I might have had second thoughts about joining the army. Not out of fear – I was no coward – but out of longing for what I would leave behind. It had been two years since Poirot had been taken from me, but I felt his loss keenly, as if it had only been two weeks. He was the man who had made me happier than I ever thought I could be. He was the man who was by my side through thick and thin, through trouble and through pain. The man I loved with my very being, whose embrace had been home for so long. And now he had gone.

But sometimes… sometimes I swore Poirot was with him. Sometimes I could feel his presence, a presence so tangible I could almost smell his expensive aftershave, almost feel the warmth of his palm on my elbow. But when I turned to look, there was nothing but space and the bitterness of a loss. He wasn't there.

I felt the sting of tears in my eyes, and tried to blink them away. There was no place for that. Not in war. Even so, my body betrayed my mind, and soon I was trying to stem the flow of tears that was making its way down my face. I missed him. I longed for the days where we would curl up side by side, and simply watched the day go by. I wanted to turn back, leave the army, go back in time to be with him again, but I knew that this train of thought was folly. He wouldn't come back.

I wiped at my eyes again, but as I lowered my arm, I felt a warmth envelope my hand, and an almost-there scent of debonair class. He was here again. At least, I hoped. I dared not turn, lest it ruin the illusion that he was here again. I needed his company tonight, be it imaginary or not. I needed his hand in mine, his silent comfort. And now he was here for me again.

The music crackled through the night, and I stayed listening to its comforting beat until the warmth left my shoulder, and I was alone once more.

**Drabble 2**

It had been three years, and somehow I was still alive.

Three years of trenches and gunfire, of smog and smoke, of death and blood. And somehow, despite being older and grayer, I was still alive. Despite being the first to volunteer to be in front, to go over the top, somehow I had survived, and others had not. There had been times when the odds were hopelessly against me, and yet I still lived. I had no fear of Death anymore, but Death seemed to fear me, avoiding me at every turn, taking others instead of me.

Time went by, and one by one my comrades fell whilst I battled. John was dead, and had been for some time. His death washed over me like cold water, but it did not have the sharp pain of Poirot's. John had died in battle, and each battle death was just another tally for the score books, another body to be buried at the end of the day.

But Poirot's was different. His was a death on home soil, the death of a man who had symbolized happiness and home for me, an anchor in the wild waters of life. When he had died, I was set adrift in the ocean, with nothing to hold me to anyone or anywhere. I merely went through the motions, walking and fighting through the years.

There were times when I wished I'd take a wrong step, that a German would stop missing me for once and shoot me proper, only so I would see Poirot again. But I knew in my heart that would not be what Poirot wanted. Poirot would've accepted my sense of duty, and would hope that I did not risk myself on his behalf. When these periods of darkness overwhelmed me, his presence was what kept me sane, even with the smoke and gunfire. There was war in the east, but he was the sun that kept me walking ahead, that kept me fighting for our home. If I died for the cause, then so be it. But I could not give up.

I had to keep fighting. I had to. For him and my country.

**Drabble 3**

I knew Death would stop dodging my tracks at some point.

It took him six more years after I joined the front, but he eventually got round to me. A few shots to the stomach, and I was down. This was supposed to be the beginning of the liberation of France. For me, this was the liberation of me from the confines of life.

I knew I was going to die. Medics ran by me, each involved in their own personal casualty. Sometimes someone would try dragging me to safety, but they'd always be beaten back by enemy fire. I was left on the beach, among the bodies of the fallen. If I tipped my head to the left, I could see the latest victim of bombardment – a young man, only joined a few months ago, as soon as he had hit eighteen. He had been thrown in at the deep end for sure. Thrown in with the other troops, to face enemy fire on Gold Beach.

Gold Beach. It had been gold once upon a time, but now it was more bronze, with the coppery colour of blood leeching into the fine grains of sand. Bodies littered the area around me, each bleeding out of various holes, their expressions a mixture of pain and resignation. The smoke from guns and the sand grains that flew from explosions filled the air and stung the open wound that was the lower half of my torso. It was nothing to me anymore. I had been waiting to die for far too long.

I was going back home.

Poirot's presence was by my side again, I could feel it. The presence that felt so intangible before was growing stronger and stronger as my grip on life grew weaker and weaker. I felt safe as the warmth of his presence surrounded me, as if he were holding me in a tight embrace. Bullets and bombs landed around me, yet I felt at peace with myself. Death was an inevitability now – I had nothing to fear from the physical threats of war.

Through the last vestiges of my sight, I could see the tide was coming in. The waves were tinged crimson. Soon, the beach would be clear of bodies, the waves lapping us up like a dog at water, and a new day would dawn. I hoped that Britain would be victorious. I hoped the fighting would end. But for now, it was time for me to leave. I closed my eyes, and let the scent of war and the coldness of sea water drift away, letting it be replaced by the scent and the heat of the man I had waited to see again for seven years.

"Open your eyes, _mon captaine_."

I was home.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm thinking of writing a set of drabbles once or twice a week up until Christmas. What do you guys think?


End file.
